


Keep Breathing

by Pixie (magnetgirl)



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Backstory, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Minor Character Death, Stream of Consciousness, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 01:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12619688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetgirl/pseuds/Pixie
Summary: It's hard not to have regrets when she is locked in a Klingon prison cell with little to do but consider how she got there.





	Keep Breathing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Helen8462](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helen8462/gifts).



> An expansion of [Maybe There's a Universe](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12429633) number 4

"What do you want, cat?"

She knocks the animal away from the window he's cryptically scraping with some kind of nervous energy, and peers out the glass. It's still raining heavily, visibility is limited, but she sees the lights of a transport landing in the cul de sac.

"Mommy! There's a shuttle!"

"I see it." She joins the child at the window, confusion and concern darkening her face. 

The little girl presses her face to the glass to better see past the rain. "Is it Daddy?" she asks, hopefully.

Her mother shakes her head with hesitation. It shouldn't be -- her husband isn't expected back for weeks, at least. They've barely spoken in the last month or two, he's been on the front lines where communication with home is more difficult, and even dangerous.

"I don't think so, sweetie."

The neighborhood was mostly Fleet and there are two other houses this landing pad is closest to. But as they watch, three figures emerge from the vehicle and start walking towards their home. None are her husband, nor the Admiral he works for. One looks vaguely familiar, maybe she's seen him around the office or at one of the socials they used to have. Another appears to be medical. Tendrils of anxiety start to clutch at her with each step closer. There's no good reason for Starfleet to be on her doorstep in the light of day, never mind after dinner in the middle of a rainstorm. Good news would be relegated to a viewscreen. Only bad news is delivered in person.

She squares her shoulders against the worst and turns to her daughter. "Find your brother and go upstairs."

"He's already in bed."

"Good. Go join him."

"But I want to-"

" _Now_ ," her mother commands.

The little girl's small face contorts into an expression of barely controlled fury but she turns and stomps away without a word. Satisfied, her mother turns her attention back to the door, now chiming, and the officers on the other side. Out of sight, the child halts at the top of the stairs and slips down to sit with her legs dangling between the rail. The cat, still agitated, leaps down beside her with an uneasy mew.

"Shh," she hisses, and, worried he’ll draw attention to them, she gathers the pet into her arms. The adults are too deep in discussion to notice, but also speaking too quietly to be heard from the landing. Even so, when her mother collapses into tears against one of the visitors, the little girl watching doesn't need to be told. Her arms clutch the cat too tightly against her chest, but the pain of the creature's nails clawing into her flesh is nothing compared to the ache in her heart.

* * *

_Dear {Title} Kopak/Lanno. Your husband/son/father died bravely in an attempt to facilitate peace between the Federation and the Klingons. While the mission failed, I want you to know the vital role Rank Kopak/Lanno played in the war for… battle for? In the battle for... What's another word for peace?_

She's never liked writing these letters. Of course, no one would, but. They are required to walk a line between personal and professional, and that's always been her biggest struggle. She can't say what she wants to say.

_I'm sorry I got your loved one killed with my blind idealism. I'm sorry he got dragged into a conflict that has nothing to do with him. I'm sorry I let them take my weapon. I'm sorry I survived. If it's any consolation, I might not have. I might not be alive to record this._

It's not a consolation.

She didn't know Lanno at all. Hadn't met him before this mission. But Kopak had been with her for two and a half years. She'd met his wife. A picture drawn by his daughter is on the wall in her office. They're feeding her cat.

_Dear Victoria. Your husband died bravely in an attempt to facilitate peace between the Federation and the Klingons. While the mission failed, I want you to understand Lieutenant Commander Kopak's efforts were not in vain. There will be an end to this conflict._

_Will there?_

_Yes. Yes, there has to be._

_Will I see it?_

_Stop asking. Focus. Save your strength._ The voice was hers but morphs into another's. _You need to be clear eyed when they come for you. No regrets._

* * *

"Stand up straight. Both of you."

Mother tugs at her collar, brushes her hair back out of her eyes. She's the Commander's daughter and not allowed to hide.

She's tired. The day started with a burial at dawn. Her father's body was not recovered, but her mother insisted on a symbolic ceremony. There, it was only family, and an honor guard. Here, there are hundreds of people. Most of them served with her father in some capacity, only a handful she's ever seen before. They all say they're sorry, ask her name, wish her well, and move on to her brother.

It's endless. And then it's over. The line part, at least. The room is still full of sorrowful people and subdued chatter.  

"Get something to eat," her mother suggests, with a distracted pat on her shoulder. "Watch your brother." And she escapes to the bar to ask for something strong, to numb the pain.

Tim looks up at her with hopeful eyes. She's not hungry, but a five year old boy's appetite demands constant attention.

"Come on," she says, taking his hand before they dive into the crowd to find the display of food.

"Excuse me. Excuse me." The adults pause and part at the polite enquiry. Some press her shoulder, flash a smile, murmur platitudes, and she nods respectfully and shields her brother as she pulls him past. When they finally reach the table, she makes a plate of treats and leads Tim to a quiet corner.

He drops to the floor to dig in immediately; she has a conundrum. Mommy fussed with her dress all day, is it okay to sit on the floor now? There's no chairs and her mother is across the room paying no attention. No one is paying them any attention now they've moved off to the side. But still. She's the Commander’s daughter. At the thought, she absently pulls her hair back out of her face.

Tim holds a pastry cup up to her, some kind of fruit syrup spilling over his fingers. She plucks it out of his hand and lowers carefully to the floor, tucking her legs back, and smoothing her dress over her knees, before taking a bite.

"Thank you," she tells her brother.

Never very talkative, his only response it to hand her a cookie. As she nibbles, he leans his head into her lap, tired now his hunger has been sated. She watches the adults mingle, nearly all strangers, nearly all Starfleet, and makes a sudden, specific decision. She'll always be the Commander's daughter. But someday she'll also be the Commander.

* * *

It's hard not to have regrets when she is locked in a Klingon prison cell with little to do but consider how she got there.

How she might get out is also on her mind, and what she might be able to learn from the encounter. She's memorized the layout of the cell, and moves to a different corner every few hours so as to try and hear what's happening beyond the walls. She listens for distinct voices, counts steps as they move from her room, makes mental notes about the guards who periodically check in on her. She's building a file, and looking for opportunities, and creating a routine so as not to go mad.

But it still leaves plenty of time to ruminate.

She doesn't believe in fate, but it is a strange string of coincidences that landed her here. If Sarek hadn't have been injured _he'd_ be here. But Sarek _was_ injured, by one of his own, and some kind of Vulcan mysticism alerted his adopted daughter the mutineer, who was on Gabriel's ship because part of Gabriel's erratic behavior is collecting damaged misfits, and so they went off on their unauthorized rescue mission, risking Starfleet's most important ship and all the people on her to save one dying Vulcan.

_Well, what's wrong with that? Wouldn't you? If the choice was save your father or feel him die? Don't pretend you weren't off on your own rescue mission, authorization tacit at best. At least they succeeded in saving Sarek._

If Sarek hadn't have been injured he'd be here. But not for long. His family would come for him. _You're just angry you're not damaged enough to collect._

* * *

It's a much smaller crowd than the one for their father, though still mostly populated by Starfleet. Katrina is simultaneously gratified and annoyed. She's glad they came, but equally glad they look ashamed. She'd had to grow up fast, for her brother's sake, and her own, when it became clear their mother was lost to grief and no one was going to do anything about it. Her mother didn't want help, but she needed it. And Katrina _did_ want help.

In the years that have passed since her father's death, her time and attention have been divided between three passions, all of which are coupled with a sense of duty. The first is Tim, who she shielded from her mother's worst moods and worse boyfriends, and promoted and supported at school and various outside activities. The second is her promise to follow in her father's footsteps with service in Starfleet. And the third is a desire to become what she wished her family had. A safety net. A system. A someone.

She's eighteen years old and the eldest person in her family. It seems wrong.

"What's going to happen to me?"

"What?"

Tim is generally quiet. An introvert who likes to build things. He gets lost easily, has an eager curiosity that can get in the way of good sense. But a healthy imagination is necessary in an engineer, she just has to make sure he stays on track. And out of danger.

"What's going to happen to me?" he repeats, a tremor in his voice. "Where will I go?"

"They can't evict us," she assures him. Starfleet can be short sighted but they're not cruel. Tim is still a kid, they should retain the home until he's of age at least. "You have two more years of school. We'll be okay."

"What about the Academy?" She's slated to start the next term. It was meant to be her main focus, her only focus, these last few months. She was so close to getting away. To being responsible for just herself. Mom had seemed better, even excited for her. But like always, it didn't last.

The worst part is, when they told her about the crash, the first thing she felt was relief. Before the sorrow, the anger, the fear and uncertainty… relief. The shouting matches are over. The parade of terrible relationships. The fear she would arrive drunk to the many and sundry functions Katrina participated in to be well rounded, at least in appearance. The disappointment when she didn't show up to all.

The grief set in eventually, but grief is familiar. She knows how to stand tall, brush her hair back and face the fury of night.

"I'll commute," she tells Tim. He looks skeptical, and it's true she's never heard of such a thing, but they live in Fleet housing and she's certain she can make it work. "I'm enrolled in medical," she continues, to counter his unspoken concern. "I'll focus on that and defer if I need to. I'll figure it out."

His eyes remain worried. "I don't want to hold you back."

"Nothing can hold me back," she tells him with steely resolve.

* * *

It's been days. She's tired. She's hungry. She's bored.

Her thoughts are starting to turn to the maudlin. She buried three Cornwells, but it's been decades. She thought she was safe. Maybe all these years she's been on borrowed time.

A lot of people will come to her funeral. Well, unless the war gets in the way. But all the brass, her colleagues and staff. And their families. She doesn't have a family. She barely has friends.

_I'm your friend_ , says the voice.

_Go away_ , she tells it. Contempt is more useful than comfort here.

* * *

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," she answers, in a tired voice with little inflection. She's said it over a hundred times just this morning.

"I'm Gabriel. Lorca. I was Tim's roommate on the Jemison."

She blinks. Focuses on the young man in front of her. "Oh. Of course. He mentioned you." Though, right this second, she couldn't bring to mind a single thing he'd said. On a clinical level, she understands she is grieving, and her memories are stalled because her brain wants to protect her. On an emotional level, she doesn't care about any of that, and is irrationally afraid she's already forgetting her little brother, the best person she'll ever know. She blinks again, and wishes she could cry. But all she feels is empty.

"You're not what I expected. From how he spoke of you."

She tries again to focus on the roommate. Lorca. She's fuzzy on the details with regards to Tim, but even so, he's exactly what she'd expect. Quintessential Starfleet, dress uniform pressed and polished, practically at attention -- though there's something about the way he plants his feet. Grounded, especially here, in the soil. Even she feels weird after years of artificial gravity, but Lorca looks at home.

"What did he say?"

Gabriel cocks his head. "You're a doctor, and a hard ass, and his best friend." She makes a noise that imitates laughter, though neither of them are fooled. "And you practically raised him after your mother died."

She stares, stricken. Tim had never said it to her. Not anything like it. Others had, but she didn't listen. The way she sees it, she'd never done anything more than what anyone would do in her situation. She didn't have a choice, somebody had to take care of him.

And anyway, she failed. Here she is at another funeral. Tim had run headlong into danger, just like he always did, and she wasn't there to shield him.

She's blinking furiously and she tastes bile in her throat. Gabriel takes her hand and presses gently on the palm.

"Can I get you something?" he offers. "Water? Bourbon?"

She glances up, sees his concerned expression. Why can't she remember what Tim said? He liked him, but he was… something. Maybe driven? Ambitious?

"How am I different?" At his frown she clarifies in a murmur, "Than what you thought."

He chuckles and it's oddly comforting. He's still holding her hand. "Well, I expected a governess. You're hot."

Katrina stares. Maybe Tim meant to call him audacious. But then Tim would laugh. She starts to shake, and she can't stop. Gabriel tugs on her hand, draws her closer to him and away from the crowd. When they've reached a quiet corner, he pulls her into a tight embrace and she starts to sob.

She sheds all the tears she'd pent up for weeks, since she'd received word of the incident, and rushed to the nearest transport only to arrive two hours too late. She doesn't know how long she cries, held tight in a stranger's arms. He doesn't shush her, or pass on any platitudes. He doesn't speak at all. Just stands, holding the world away, creating a safe space for her to cry.

When her tears are spent she pulls away. Gabriel drops his hands and waits. Katrina takes a deep, refreshing, breath.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. " _I'm_ sorry. I didn't…" He looks rueful. "I meant to make you laugh."

She pulls her lips in over her teeth. “I needed this more."

He nods understanding. She glances to the thinning crowd of mourners.

"I'll take that bourbon now," she suggests, turning back. He grins and steers her toward the bar.

"There you are. I've been looking for you."

She blinks as the man plants himself in their path, forcing her to halt. "Oh, Frank. Thank you for coming."

"Of course I would." Innocuous words, but she hides a shudder. He always looked at her like she was injured. It still makes her uncomfortable. "I wanted to know if there's anything I can do."

"Thank you," she says again, with a small shake of her head. Noting tension Gabriel's grip tightens on her elbow.  

"Let me take you home," Frank suggests. "Make you dinner."

There was a time it might have been a comforting offer, but that was before she knew him, who he wanted her to be. She sends a silent thank you to the stars he wasn't the one she fell apart in front of. "I can't," she asserts with what she hopes passes for a polite expression.

"Let me take care of you," he presses and reaches for her hand.

"No," she murmurs, and attempts to pull away but his grip is tight, and he starts to tug her towards him.

"We have plans," Gabriel interjects in a calm, clear voice. Frank had been ignoring him, but now looks up to meet his eyes.

"This is Mr. Lorca," Katrina explains, "Tim's roommate."

Gabriel extends his left hand, forcing Frank to drop Katrina's in order to shake it. She takes a step back and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Nice to meet you," Frank says, his tone belying the phrase.

Gabriel nods, once. Frank's eyes flick between him and Katrina, both seemingly ready to pounce on him for various reasons, and he purses his lips.

"Maybe another time, then," he tells Katrina and moves away, agitated.

Katrina lets her arms and chest fall with a sigh.

"Ex-boyfriend?"

"Something like that." She shakes her head, and glances up to meet his eyes. "You're my white knight today."

He smiles. "Just a friend. Drink?"

"I just want to go home."

"I'll walk you out."

They walk side by side to the transport in an amicable quiet. He intends to see her off, but when the shuttle arrives she grabs his hand. A glance tells him she's pale, and breathing shallow, and he follows her to a seat without a word.

The sun is setting when they arrive at the complex where Fleet officers are housed while on short term leave. He follows her to the small apartment she's been assigned. Her breathing has steadied again, though there is still little color in her cheeks. "Get some sleep," he suggests. "If you need anything, I'm just two buildings down."

She nods, and means to say thank you again, but can't quite get her voice to work. He leans down to press his lips to her forehead. Her hands twitch as she imagines curling them into his chest and pulling him into her room, into her bed, into her body. She wants to feel his skin pressed against hers, his arms holding her together again. She wants to feel anything other than the suffocating emptiness of the past week.

He peers at her face, all pale vulnerability, poised between desire, desperation, and despair.

"Do you want me to stay?"

"No," she chokes out, but her hands flutter and she presses them against his chest in defiance of the word. She takes a breath and turns her eyes up to meet his. "Yes," she says in a clear voice, "but no." If she wanted regrets she would have left with Frank. She wants something better.

He nods. "How about I come by tomorrow? We can go to the museum. Walk along the water." She's from around here. It won't be anything new, but maybe that's what she needs.

"Eat ice cream?"

"Whatever you want."

The ghost of a smile pulls at her lips. "I'd like that."

"Me, too."

She drops her hands and with a final promise to return he takes his leave. When he's out of sight she steps into the room, kicks off her shoes, pulls her dress up over her head, and throws it into a corner. She falls to the floor, curls her knees into her chest and falls asleep crying. But not alone.

* * *

_Vice Admiral Katrina Cornwell died bravely in an attempt to facilitate peace between the Federation and the Klingons. She failed. She gave everything to the fleet, which is why it doesn’t matter who is giving this address, none of them know her. Know me. My favorite book. My greatest fear. The way my toes curl when I’m happy and why I don’t let my hair fall in my face._

_I know._ She’s feeling delirious, she can almost see him sitting beside her.

_Will you tell them? Will you forgive me long enough to tell these strangers who I am?_

_Is that what you want, Kat?_

She feels everything at once. Fear fills her lungs. Her stomach is a pit of rage at the suggestion that she has to be forgiven. Even if she's only talking to herself. The loneliness that has defined her, and the confidence that hides it. The hope that she matters.

_What do you want, Kat?_

There's movement outside. Someone is approaching. Her eyes flash open at the sound and she gathers the storm of emotions around her like armor. She smoothes her hair back and lifts her chin to meet her captor, and her future. Clear eyed. No regrets. "May fortune favor the bold," she whispers.

_I want to live._


End file.
